I have a lot of respect for my callers and the people who write in, but I’m conservative compared to them.

People call me because they have questions not covered by mainstream sexual mores. If you’re wondering how to ask a girl to prom, you can find that out fast by talking to your old man. If you are a young woman unsure of whether it’s okay to have sex on your period, the internet is your friend.

I get calls and letters from people who don’t know how to initiate group sex with their coworkers who they want to fuck. I’m your man if you need to know how to navigate asking someone to tie you up and hold a vibrator against your clit, making you cum over and over, even if you beg them to stop but don’t want them to stop. And in that case you’d be fucking sure I would insist you decide on a safe word well before you jump into that situation.

But all that stuff isn’t for me. I’m vanilla.

I just want a gorgeous woman with a hot body bent over my desk while I smack her ass and pull her hair.

That’s what’s on my mind as Kayla, Sara and I go back to our workspaces.

“Good episode, guys,” I say. “We’re going to have the tech guys get everything packaged and ready to go.”

“You guys have the new episodes come out on Friday mornings at 12:30, right?” Sara says. She’s clearly done her homework.

“That’s right,” Kayla says, “but the boss prefers to call it Thursday night.”

“Correct,” I say. “That way I can make an excuse to have everyone stay in the office and party when each new episode comes out.”

We make our way past the reception area and through the hallway of my office. I chose everything in this space myself, from the type of wood on the floors to the light fixtures in the ladies’ restroom.

Kayla and I didn’t start here, in a highrise on the 40th floor of one of the trendiest parts of LA, lining our pockets with those dirty bucks. We started in New York, in a makeshift recording studio in a bathroom inside an illegal basement apartment we shared in Astoria, Queens. And that was in the earlier days of the internet, when podcasts were just a far-off dream and people still actually had radios. That was just an internet show called Filthy Chatter. We called it that because we could never get our equipment to run right, and it was hard to hear our voices over the cacophony of sirens and barking dogs, and all the other sounds of the city we left behind ten years ago.

Now, we run the place in a sleek and stylish office in the sky, and I love it. I’m never looking back.

Not that I’m not grateful for where we came from. I’ll always remember my roots. But now it’s so much more fun spending a grand on champagne for our weekly wrap-up parties on Thursday nights to celebrate the new episodes.

“You’ve already found your cubicle, I trust?” We enter the open-air work space that I’ve designed to encourage a free exchange of ideas between my staff members. Sara sidles up next to her cubicle, where I recognize her raincoat from her interview swung over the back of her chair. “Did Matt tell you where everything is?”

She smiles up at me with her bright smile and even prettier, big brown eyes.

“Yes! Matt is the best. He showed me my desk, and he said if I needed anything I could go to him with any questions.”

“Yes, please do use him as a resource. But I also want you to know that my door is always open as well. And I work right over there, as you know.” I toss a glance over my shoulder, wagging my chin at my office. “I have an open door policy. Plus, there isn’t much privacy here. All the walls are glass. I did that on purpose. Except in the bathrooms,” I add.

“It’s a beautiful office,” Sara says, looking around, her eyes wide and curious, scanning the wall of offices behind me.

“Well,” I say, crossing my arms over my chest, “I like beauty.”

Her face flushes, and she draws her bottom lip slowly between her teeth.

She’s gorgeous; there is simply no better way to describe her. She is slim but curvy, with small breasts beneath her professional white collared button-down and a little waist and a full ass and luscious set of hips pulling on her black pencil skirt. Her skin is sun-kissed and fresh, and she looks like a free-spirited surfer chick under those clothes. Stripped away, she doesn’t belong in an office. She belongs in a bikini. I would never have been able to meet a woman like this in New York, which makes me all the more happy I left. The women in New York are hardened and cynical. Don’t get me wrong, I love that about them. But she has a wide-eyed innocence that was made and ripened under the bright sun.

“Boss?” Matt comes out from the hallway into the work area and throws a hand up into the air quickly, interrupting my and Sara’s moment. “I’ve got Lexi on the phone.”

I roll my eyes and groan, putting a hand to my forehead.

“Sara, I’ve got to get this call. Please talk to Kayla. We have a project we’d like you to work on, and she can give you all of the details.”

“Got it,” she says. “Thank you.”

“Transfer it!” I call to Matt, striding into my office and shutting the door behind me. It’s not much in the way of privacy, but at least no one will be able to hear me, even if they can see me.

I sit down behind my desk and spin around in my chair, taking in the gorgeous view of the hills. The sunshine, the women, this is so much better than New York. Trading in my umbrella for a pair of shades is the best thing Kayla and I ever decided to do for this business. I have a sexy new intern who I’ll make mine in no time, I’m on top of the fucking world making bank and living the life, but my mood is soured because this is the last phone call I want to be getting right now, but I owe a lot to her old man.

My phone rings and I spin around to put her through.

“Lexi,” I say, smirking in spite of myself. This woman is an absolute scourge, but we had some pretty wild times together. “I thought I told you we aren’t in business with each other anymore.”

“Did you change your number again?” she coos. “I tried calling your cell, but someone else answered it. It was someone who didn’t speak English. I think he was speaking Russian.”

I chuckle to myself. I sold my phone number, along with my coveted 917 area code, to a young guy I met at a bar when I was in New York about a month ago. I was at my favorite bar, on the corner of Third Avenue and 31st street, and the poor schmuck looked down on his luck. He had a portfolio of bond listings out open at the bar and a bottle of cheap, shitty American beer. Turned out he was a recent immigrant, staying with his cousin who’d arrived here about a year earlier. We traded stories all night, and he mentioned that he’d felt a little maligned by prospective employers because he didn’t have a local phone number. I’d heard about people selling their 917 area code numbers because of the clout that came with having the original cell phone area code for New York City, but I never bit. By the time this scheme came into practice, I didn’t need a couple thousand extra bucks. Ten years ago, maybe I would have considered it. But for Peter, I knew that phone number could actually really help him out, so I sold it to him for the price of a bottle of beer and we toasted to him making it in New York.

“What do you want, Lexi?” I sigh into the phone, cradling my chin in my left hand, scrolling through some texts on my cell phone with my right.

“This is not a social call, though maybe it should be a considered a social call. If you recall correctly, I’m not the one who made our relationship into a business transaction.”

I scroll past a text from a girl who’s sent me a picture of her not exactly topless, because she has a bra on, but it’s one of those plunging, padded bras that leaves little to the imagination. I can see every little curve of her tits spilling out of those double D cups. I toss my cell phone down and hit speaker, putting the land line receiver down in its cradle.

“Did you call me just to reminisce about the past, Lexi?” I get up and walk over to the window. I can see my house from here - it’s about three quarters of a mile away. I toss a look over my shoulder to check on Sara. I’d meant to give her more personal attention today, now that I’m back from my meetings in New York, but I need to head off Lexi at the start. She only gets crazier when I ignore her. I wonder if I have time after the call and before lunch to bring Sara to my house to see my swimming pool. Maybe some mid-morning skinny dipping could be in order.

“No, Ryan,” Lexi responds. “This actually is a business call, since you seem to be all about your work now.”

“Always been like that,” I shoot back, leaning against the wall between my office and the conference room. Sara’s in good hands with her, and I check again to see them working together two offices over in one of the conference rooms. They’ve got a few books open together. I’m having Sara do some research on how sex and health education in colleges has changed over the last fifty to sixty years. It’s a project I’ve been interested in for a while, but none of my interns have been up to the task yet. Most of them just want to post selfies under the official Dirty After Dark Instagram account instead of doing any actual work, but I think Sara would be interested in this project and actually do a good fucking job.

“I need you to come to New York to discuss it,” Lexi says. “We need to catch up anyway.” Her voice softens, but she’s pure venom.

“I’m sure it’s nothing we can’t discuss over the phone.”

Lexi sighs. “Fine. There’s this opening for this new bar in the meatpacking district, and they want you to appear. The compensation is really good.”

The pay would be a nice perk, but at this point in my career I’m more interested in actually helping people and raising awareness.

But again...the pay would be a nice perk.

“How much are we talking?”

“It’s five hundred k,” Lexi exhales into the phone.

I whistle. It’s not bad for one night of work. That’s not including all the prep work and the time to get there and back, but still. It’s not bad. It’s not the most I’ve ever earned for an appearance. But it’s up there.

“Okay, and what are the expectations? Timeline? And who is funding this thing?”

“It’s some liquor brand. Does it matter? They want you to be their brand ambassador and do this club opening. The timeline is tight, I’m going going to lie; the opening is in a couple weeks.”

I tap my bottom lip again and look over at Sara, catching her giving me a furtive glance. She looks down quickly and slips a stray lock of hair over her ear.

I suck in a sharp breath and let it all out, emptying my lungs fully.

“Why are you really calling me?” I hook my hands together and rub them on the top of my head, rusting up my hair. It’s not just for Sara; it’s not just because I want her to think about me with beadhead, think about me waking up next to her. It’s to loosen myself up, get myself out of this funk I always get into when I talk to Lexi. I crack my knuckles and roll my neck, trying to loosen up my shoulders.

“I’m calling you because this is a good opportunity, and because I care about you.”

“Care about me? You have a funny way of showing you care.”

“Okay, fine.” She sighs though the phone again. I can picture her stomping her foot against whatever street corner she’s probably calling me from in between meetings. That woman never could sit still. “I’m calling because I also want you to be there. Personally. But there’s more. I’m working at that nonprofit right now, and they’re gunning for you. They want you there because it would bring really needed publicity to them.”

“You don’t have your own connections?” I sit down behind my desk and grab my phone again. I have a few more texts from the girl with the red bra. She’s good at sending sexy pictures, I’ll give her that much. Her white ribbed tank top is bunched up around her neck, and at the bottom of the frame is her barely-covered breasts. Her pouty pink lips flank the top edge of the picture. “You don’t have your own strings to pull? You need to pull mine?”

“Ryan, this is me pulling strings. You’re the one they have their eye on, and they know that we used to work together, so this is me doing a favor for them. Believe me, it was hard for me to make this call.”

I know that to be an utter lie. She uses any bullshit excuse to call me, despite the fact that I’ve told her repeatedly not to.

“What’s the non-profit? And why the hell are you working for a non-profit?”

Lexi does not need any more money, but that’s never stopped her from going out and trying to get as much as possible, pad her bank account with as many zeros as she can.

“Dad thinks I need a change of pace, and I agree. After that last stint in rehab...I’d rather not talk about it.”

“You sure you’re okay to be involved in a club opening?”

I’m aware that she went to rehab, but I don’t know if it’s really serious. Lexi has a way of making her life into a mess, and then just wanting to check out and take a break for a while, and the best way for her to do that is to have her dad pay for a stint in rehab. I find it really insulting to people with actual problems who want help, but then again, I try to not judge. It’s just hard when it’s the woman who’s put you through the ringer so many times.

“Yeah, it’s fine. Dad is just paranoid. He thinks I need to take a break from all the partying and shit, so I have this gig in PR at this non-profit. It’s actually affiliated with the department of health here in New York. We do a lot of good work, Ryan, which you’d know if you ever actually called me.”

“Guilt won’t work on me, Lexi. But I’ll do it. Tentatively. Out of the goodness of my heart. After my attorney’s had a chance to go over the contract.”

“I’ll have the attorneys for the club send it over.”